


Lamina

by eve11



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Het, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-28
Updated: 2011-05-28
Packaged: 2017-10-19 20:32:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/204914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eve11/pseuds/eve11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Any touch  encases her skin in a memory of motion, the painted runes and signs tingling against her as if they are still being drawn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lamina

**Author's Note:**

> Response to an anonymous kinkmeme request of "Body Paint" with bonus points for clueless Eleven :)

"The things I do for my boys," Amy says. She is stark naked, standing barefoot on a slate stone floor in a tent, twenty minutes from a purification ceremony that the Ixtipo insist is the only way they can let outsiders into the clan domes where the Doctor has tracked the latest Vortex anomaly. She is nervous and warm and incredibly turned on. She huffs out a breath but closes her eyes obediently.

"You have"--slick fingers run a layer of ceremonial _kencha_ paint over each of her eyelids and Amy tries not to flutter them--"to stop"--the fingers angle down her cheeks and neck to her chest, tracing circles around her hardening nipples--"squiriming," Rory finishes. He pulls away for a silent dab into one of the clay pots she knows are surrounding them, and she sucks in a breath at the loss of contact, until his cool fingers reappear just above her navel and she can't help herself leaning into them, wanting to feel him press harder against her. But he backs off, the touch maddeningly light. Her own fingers are sheathed in paint; she can't even clench a fist in frustration, until it dries.

"I'm not squirming," she hisses, even though she knows she is. The thick paint feels like mud going on but it doesn't dry like mud, caking and flaking off. Instead it warms and flexes and moves with her, like the tightest and lightest leather she can imagine. Any touch encases her skin in a memory of motion, the painted runes and signs tingling against her as if they are still being drawn.

"You are," Rory says. "Just hold still."

"What color are you using now?" she nearly whispers. Rory is everywhere in the close, dense space--the more he paints her, the more his impossible touch echoes from all across her body at once. She imagines him on his knees in front of her, squinting as he studies the ceremonial scroll in the candle-light, concentrating oh so hard on perfecting the inflection and shape of each rune he transfers onto her skin. The thin robes they gave him for the ceremony left little to the imagination, and before he got to her face she could already see his arousal, just as she can hear it now in his heavy breaths and the low gravel in his voice.

"Orange and red." He arcs three cool fingers down her stomach toward the pile of curls that are already soaking from his earlier attention with the _kencha_ and her own heightening arousal. His breath puffs across her stomach; caught by the warming paint, it ripples out across the streaks and signs, down her thighs, across her back and buttocks, and then pulls inward again in a wave, focusing on her throbbing clit. Amy breathes through her nose but can't stop herself from letting out a moan. She wants to grab his hair and press his face against her; she wants to run her mouth along his neck; she wants to feel his hips buck against her as she plunges her hands into a pot of paint and gives him a taste of his own medicine--

"--I trust everything's progressing?" The Doctor's voice is accompanied by a flash of light against her closed lids and a chill draft as he thrusts aside the tent flap. Rory's fingers tense and fly away, and she hears a dull _thwack_ as a full pot clatters to the slate floor, spilling _kencha_ against her bare feet. Amy's breath hitches. Her muscles tense in surprise and it washes an ache of sensation across her body. She keeps her eyes closed and bites the inside of her lip.

"Yeah," Rory says loudly, and Amy can _hear_ him squirming, trying to keep his erection in check. "Yeah, fantastic, Doctor. Thanks for knocking."

"Yes, well, only the ceremony is set to start in fifteen minutes and--oh." The light changes as the tent flap falls across the entrance, and the sound around her is close and intimate again. "Oh dear," the Doctor breathes against her eyelids, and she didn't hear him move but he's right in front of her, and if he touches her . . . if he touches her, she won't be responsible for her actions. But he doesn't. He backs away and she hears the rustle of paper and a wooden thunk as he gathers the scroll and unfurls it from tip to tip. "No, this won't do at all," he continues. "This is all wrong. It has to be--"

"Doctor!" Rory cries, and this time Amy can't help opening her eyes. Rory is still half-seated, ignoring the red-orange _kencha_ paint pooling around one knee as he lunges forward to seize the Doctor's hand, heavy with blue paint and hovering a hairs breadth from Amy's breast. She lets out a surprised yelp and feels her legs begin to tremble, as Rory guides the Doctor's hand down. The Doctor looks from the scroll in one hand, back to the paint coating the fingers of his other hand, and then from Rory back to Amy in utter confusion.

"I'll do it," Rory says. "Just"--he sighs--"just tell me how it should go."

The Doctor's eyes flick back and forth from Amy to Rory as his unimaginably complex brain tries to sort this simple directive. Then he steps back a pace, and his voice softens.

"Blue symbolizes new discoveries," he instructs quietly. "Two fingers paint a concentric pair of circles, first tracing the path of the sun across the sky..."

The paint on her eyelids is ruined, but Amy closes them anyway. Rory's touch isn't hesitant or embarrassed and she loves him for it. He runs two fingers circling up over her breast, resonating against the echoes in the layers of paint warming her skin. Desire surges through her, dizzying her until her whole body is floating, following that slow, simple arc.

"Focus the strength of the stroke in the first finger, let the second trail as an afterthought," says the Doctor. "And there, now underneath, switch the strength--"

Rory's fingers seem to intertwine as they transition downward, following the full curve of her breast, and Amy gives a shuddering sigh. The Doctor murmurs something else and Amy loses her focus as Rory changes direction, painting a soft line up and over her nipple and then moving down, down, down again, fingers morphing to a cool palm cupping her curls. She bites back a gasp as the Doctor's voice gains urgency and Rory finally _presses_ against her, jolting the shadow of sensations across the paint cocooning her body into an electric, overpowering wave that seizes her muscles and crashes against her clit in a release of ecstasy. Her knees weaken and she sways. Rory catches her hips against the crook of his arm, smearing paint everywhere. She regains her strength and stands shakily again.

"Oh for--" the Doctor says, oblivious. "Now we're going to have to re-do that spot."

Amy opens her eyes and looks down at Rory. He's grinning from ear to ear.


End file.
